Chapter 2: Return to the Ruthless King

Tristan was outside, driving the carriage, talking to his system, but I could still hear every word, like I had my own private radio channel straight to his head:

[System, what’s with this princess? Didn’t you say the King of Aldermere hates her? Aren’t unloved royals supposed to have miserable lives in those old palaces, bullied by staff? People like that cling to any kindness like it’s a lifeline. I just saved her…]

System: [Evelyn Ashcombe is the only child of the King.]

Tristan, incredulous: [What? The only child? Doesn’t the King have a whole court full of women? How can he have only one daughter and not a single prince? Or is it…]

His inner voice got quieter, but a little giddy: [Is the King… you know, not up for it?]

System: [……]

Me: "..."

For a split second, I wanted to strangle him. But something in his words made my heart twist. It jabbed a nerve I didn’t want to admit was there.

I really am the only princess here. Funny how that still stings.

The so-called "court of beauties"—my father never had a harem. He only ever loved my mother. The rest was just gossip, the kind that spreads like weeds in palace corridors.

How much did he love her?

I’d heard, before my father took the throne, he was just the son of a courtesan—the late king’s secret from a London brothel. No family backing, no respect. Just a shadow in the palace, tolerated at best. (And yeah, that London’s not the one on Earth, but it might as well be.)

No mother’s love, only the late king’s sneering contempt. No real treatment as a prince, just the scorn and cruelty of palace staff who never let him forget his place. It’s a wonder he survived at all.

It was my mother who pulled him out of that pit of darkness, who dragged him back into the light. She was his lifeline. She was the rope he clung to when he was drowning.

I drew a shaky breath.

He gave up decades of plotting for her, risked everything, almost died more than once. He wiped away blood, put on a mask of civility, all for her. Even the coldest man in the world can be changed by one person’s warmth.

As cold and ruthless as he was, all it took was my mother’s gentle "Let’s go home" for him to drop his sword and spare the court from a bloodbath. She was the only light in his life.

But when I was born, my mother died in childbirth. His light went out. Any hope he’d pinned on my birth vanished with her last breath. The world he’d clawed his way into just fell apart.

At the moment of his greatest happiness, he was handed hell instead. That’s the kind of wound that never heals.

I heard from the palace staff that after my mother’s hand fell limp, my father nearly tore me from the wet nurse’s arms and hurled me to the ground. The only reason I survived was because, with tears streaming down her face, my mother’s dying words were: "Promise me you’ll take care of our child."

His eyes were bloodshot, tears streaking down his face as he forced out a "Yes."

I know my father hates me. Always have.

Some of my mother’s old attendants told me he couldn’t bear the idea of a child coming between him and my mother. He secretly took medicine to avoid having children, hiding it from her. He never wanted an heir. But my mother did.

Just as my father loved her fiercely, she loved him just as much. She wanted a child—a child with both their blood, a living symbol of their love. So she swapped his medicine. He never suspected a thing.

By the time he found out she was pregnant, it was too late. The child—me—was already there. He couldn’t just get rid of me, could he? Besides, a miscarriage would have hurt her, and he couldn’t bear that.

So he had no choice but to accept it. I smirked to myself. If he’d known my birth would cost my mother her life, he would have gotten rid of me without a second thought.

All these years, I’ve never seen even a flicker of affection in his eyes—not for me. Even though I carry both their blood, he’s never looked at me twice. And I rarely saw him, either. The palace might as well have been a desert.

But when I was little, because my father hated and ignored me, the palace maids assigned to me were careless and neglectful. Some even pinched my hand until it was red when no one was looking. I remember the sting, the humiliation. The feeling of being nothing.

The next day, that maid vanished—gone without a trace. My governess told me my father had each of her fingers cut off and tossed her into a pauper’s grave.

It was as if he could neglect me himself, but if anyone else dared mistreat me, they’d suffer a fate worse than death. It was a twisted kind of protection, but it was something. Some days, it was all I had.

When I reached a certain age, he suddenly changed and brought me to his side. I was stunned by the sudden attention, half-expecting it to be a cruel joke. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

He taught me the ways of a monarch, the art of governance. He taught me fencing and military strategy. He taught me the courtly arts and the cunning of kings. The more I learned, the more shocked I became. Was there anything my father couldn’t do?

I feared him, dreaded him, but I also admired and respected him. One word of "Not bad" from him could send me over the moon for days. But his gaze was always cold—never a trace of warmth. I kept chasing it anyway.

When the carriage entered the capital, I sensed something was off. Usually, the streets would be bustling at this hour: vendors shouting, noble ladies and their maids laughing, customers haggling—all the sounds of a city alive. Now, it was eerily quiet. The silence pressed in, heavy as a winter blanket.

The carriage stopped.

[Holy crap, ahhh, system, help! Tell me, who the hell is that? Who is it?] Tristan’s panicked inner voice stabbed straight into my mind, sharp as a needle. I almost winced.

Me: "?"

A bad feeling surged in my chest, icy and cold. Like someone dumped a bucket of water down my spine.

I lifted the curtain. The first thing I saw was a dark cloak embroidered with golden lions, and people kneeling on the ground, trembling. A tall figure loomed over me. My body froze, breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move.

The air seemed to stop, thick with tension. Every second stretched out.

Then came a cold, deep voice: "Has Our princess enjoyed herself out there?"

I mustered my courage and looked up. My father wore a dark cloak, his figure lean and tall. The golden sunlight hit him, but it couldn’t soften the icy chill that clung to him. His signet circlet held back his hair, and his features were so sharp and beautiful they almost hurt to look at.